A Murderous Relation

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “And I said witnesses can be bribed. Documents can be forged. Truth can be molded into whatever the powerful want it to be. They have been doing it for centuries.”

  I took a deep breath. “Then we will decide together what must be done.”

  “Even if what must be done is exposing the Prince of Wales’ eldest son as a vicious murderer?” Stoker demanded. “You sail dangerous waters, Veronica. You are asking us to possibly destroy the monarchy.”

  “Or am I asking us to save it?” I said softly. “If we do nothing and this villain spreads his poison further afield, it could do as much damage as if Eddy held the Ripper’s knife himself. Think of it, Stoker. These murders are hideous, vicious crimes that have set the country aflame, fanned the sparks of hysteria.” I pointed to the copy of the Daily Harbinger I had discarded that morning.

  “Look at the headlines! There is a fresh crop every day, encouraging every segment of society to turn on the others. It is setting Christian against Jew, native-born Englishman against immigrant, rich against poor. And what if into this maelstrom, someone—one of these devilish newspaper proprietors, perhaps—suggests that our future king is responsible? The very possibility of such a thing would be incendiary. We have had riots this year. Can you imagine how much worse they would be if people believed even the merest possibility that a senior member of the royal family were involved in these crimes?”

  “Anarchy,” Stoker said succinctly.

  “Precisely. England would go down in flames, everything destroyed.”

  “It is a far cry from patronizing an establishment like the Club de l’Étoile to ripping up innocent women in the streets of Whitechapel,” Stoker objected.

  “Not in the minds of the British public,” I told him. “We are a nation of priggish shopkeepers and you know it. Give the upright middle class a crumb of scandal and they will make a banquet of it, as you know to your cost,” I said. He made a low growl of acknowledgment. Stoker’s own divorce—itself something of a novelty in semi-aristocratic circles—had lit the fires of gossip for months, the flames fanned by the salacious details of his wife’s abandonment of him in an Amazonian jungle while he lay waiting for death. His subsequent debaucheries in the brothels of Brazil had not helped. But the thrust had gone home, and I pressed my advantage.

  “We know the star is at the club,” I said. “And it is as good a place as any to start our investigation. Perhaps there is someone there who might think to use the prince’s presence in such an establishment as a means of whipping up opposition to the royal family itself with an eye to political change.”

  “Is such a thing even possible?” Stoker asked.

  “Marie Antoinette did nothing worse than play at being a milkmaid and the French called her Messalina,” I reminded him. “It is not the reality that matters, it is the perception.” I smiled. “And today is Wednesday—the night each week when Madame Aurore welcomes prospective members to her masquerades. We have only to present ourselves as interested clients and we will be welcomed, I have no doubt.”

  Stoker stirred. “You realize you are suggesting we take ourselves to a club devoted to the most sophisticated and elaborate debaucheries,” he said.

  “I have survived murder attempts, shipwrecks, abductions, and the eruption of Krakatoa. I do not think I will falter at a little exuberant nudity.”

  He sighed heavily. “We would need costumes. And we must learn whatever we can about the Club de l’Étoile and Madame Aurore before we hurl ourselves into this endeavor.”

  “And I know exactly where we can go to remedy both of those deficiencies,” I informed him as I pinned on my favorite hat. “Tiberius.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  Good God, I have only just got rid of the pair of you,” his lordship grumbled. But he said it with a flicker of a smile, and I knew he was rather glad to see us. Well, one of us.

  “Good day to you too, Tiberius,” I said with a grin. Stoker’s eldest brother, Viscount Templeton-Vane, had been engaged in a lazy afternoon at home with a pot of chocolate and a mildly pornographic French novel. He wore a dark dressing gown over his trousers and shirt, and his chin was freshly barbered.

  “Veronica, my dear, I am always delighted to see you, but I have had my fill of Stoker for the present. Perhaps you might come alone next time,” he suggested, his eyes alight with mischief.

  Stoker swore a little under his breath, but it was a distinct improvement on their last disagreement, which had ended with a light stabbing. They had made up after a particularly harrowing and almost fatal experience, but it was apparent that their rapprochement was going to be of the oceanic variety; it would ebb and flow with their moods.

  But Tiberius had come to think of me as a confidante and friend—more than family, he had assured me—and I hurried to explain to him the barest essentials of what we required. He listened intently, and as I finished, he tipped his head towards his brother.

  “Let me understand you correctly, Stoker,” the viscount said silkily. “You require costume pieces and information because you mean to escort Veronica to one of the most notorious sex clubs in London?”

  “Those are the broad strokes,” Stoker affirmed.

  The viscount crossed one leg over the other and sat back in his chair.

  “And why, precisely, are the pair of you embarked upon this bacchanal? One can only presume you are venturing once more into the mysterious and dangerous realms of detection.”

  “Something like that,” I told him. “But we cannot share the details. You understand the necessity for discretion.”

  “Better than most,” he said with a rueful expression. His own peccadilloes had come to light more than once in the course of our investigations. “But it is not convenient. I am in the process of shutting up the house,” he told us with an airy wave towards the ceiling. From above there was the racket of shutters being fitted into place.

  “You’re going away?” I ventured.

  His smile was humorless. “I thought a change of scene was in order after our latest little adventure.”

  Tiberius had a talent for understatement. The “little adventure” had nearly cost us our lives and had handed him a devastating revelation.* It would take him time to recover, I had no doubt, but it was decidedly inconvenient that he had chosen this moment to leave town.

  Still, how often had I used travel as a means of escaping my troubles? An untidy love affair, a thwarted professional commission, a disappointment of any sort—these had frequently provided the impetus for a fresh journey. How the spirits lifted with every embarkation! The sound of a steam engine roaring to life, the full-bellied sway of canvas sails, the sharp tang of hot metal rails or salt-scented sea. There was nothing more promising than the first stage of a new expedition. Everything was possible in that moment; there was no past, no future, only that hollow in time when everything paused.

  But while I understood Tiberius’ desire to escape, Stoker was less sympathetic.

  “You owe us, Tiberius. I saved your bloody life,” he began.

  Tiberius held up an elegant hand. “After you endangered it, my dear boy. I rather think, under the circumstances, that you owe me.”

  They stared each other down for a long moment, so alike in some respects, so different in others. They had inherited their mother’s bone structure, beautifully sculpted with a refinement any artist would envy. But while his lordship had chestnut hair and dark, flashing eyes, Stoker bore the coloring of his natural father, the black hair and bright blue eyes of the Welsh painter who had entertained the late viscountess for a short period of time during her unhappy marriage to Tiberius’ more conventional father. Watching them square off never failed to rouse distinctly primitive instincts, particularly as their battles occasionally deteriorated into fisticuffs. Stoker’s stitches were almost healed from their last such encounter, but the viscount’s face still bore the
slightest violet traces of bruising from Stoker’s handiwork.

  As I scrutinized them, I smelt a proper quarrel brewing and rose to stand between them, adopting my most governessy tone. “Boys, that is enough. Stoker, you should know by now that the gleam in Tiberius’ eye means he is amusing himself at your expense. He enjoys watching you fly into a temper. Do not oblige him. As for you, Tiberius,” I added with a repressive look, “stop torturing your brother. You know everyone in London, and I daresay you can tell us all that we wish to know in less time than it will take Collins to pack your collar studs. Don’t be difficult.”

  “Collins, in point of fact, is on a leave of absence due to his lumbago—yet another reason for shutting up the house,” his lordship informed me. Then he smiled. “But as ever, my dear Veronica, I am putty in your capable hands.” He paired the remark with a courtly gesture, reaching out to clasp the hands in question before bringing them to his lips. “You are right, of course. Now let me get on with costumes. We haven’t much time.”

  He paused to regard his brother’s physique. “The most obvious choice is a buccaneer, and if he means to be a pirate, he ought to at least look a successful one. I have a few things that will be suitable, although I daresay his thighs and shoulders will split the seams,” he added with a moue of distaste. “He has the muscular development of a peasant.”

  Stoker snorted. “Says the man who never lifts anything heavier than a hand of cards.”

  I intervened again. “You are both very attractive in your own way,” I temporized. While the viscount’s lean elegance would turn any woman’s head, I had a keen personal appreciation for Stoker’s more obvious musculature. “But Stoker’s physique is not peasantlike,” I corrected loyally. “His proportions are Praxitelean.”

  Tiberius gave a little snort and turned his attention to me, scrutinizing my figure with the eye of a practiced connoisseur. “Boadicea,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I quite like the idea of you, hair unbound, short tunic revealing shapely legs . . .” His voice trailed off suggestively. “Very tempting.”

  “I would be very happy to go as the Queen of the Iceni,” I said.

  “She likes it because it means she can carry weapons,” Stoker informed him.

  Tiberius laughed, his peculiar sharp fox’s bark of a laugh. “I have no doubt. Well, I always did say Stoker ought to have a bodyguard. Do you mean to haul a spear around all night? I only ask because it might get in the way of your more intimate activities.”

  “There are not going to be any intimate activities,” Stoker said. “We are going there to work, not to participate in an orgy.”

  Tiberius lifted his brows. “My dear boy, if you only ‘participate’ in an orgy, you are doing it incorrectly. One must join such endeavors with enthusiasm or not at all.”

  Stoker ignored the jibe. “It occurs to me that the Vane parure might be suitable.”

  “The Vane parure?” I asked.

  Tiberius sprang to his feet. “Splendid notion! Oh, my sweet Veronica, it seems my benighted brother has been touched by genius. Come along.”

  He led the way to his dressing room, a distinctly masculine room with dark wallpaper figured in green vines and a thick carpet. The room smelt of leather and whisky and vetiver. I sniffed appreciatively as Tiberius went to the portrait hanging over the narrow fireplace. It was a particularly good copy of a Boucher—or perhaps it was not a copy. The Templeton-Vanes had enjoyed a good deal of money for a good deal of time. This was brought home to me when Tiberius swung the painting aside to reveal a wall safe fitted neatly behind. He spun the dial and worked a swift series of numbers to open it. Inside were a number of leather portfolios—legal documents and deeds, no doubt. He pushed these aside and began to extract a succession of boxes, leather, kid, morocco, suede. Each was stamped with the name of a prominent jeweler from London or Paris. He sorted through them until he gave a little exclamation of satisfaction.

  “Here,” he pronounced in triumph. “I have it.”

  He came forwards bearing a case of red morocco, embossed on the top with the Templeton-Vane coat of arms. He held it out to me with a flourish.

  “For me to borrow?” I asked, hesitating.

  “Of course,” Tiberius assured me. “It is precisely what Boadicea requires.”

  He flicked the golden clasp of the box and, pausing just a moment with all the instinctive timing of a master showman, he lifted the lid.

  I caught my breath and stared into the case. Nested on a bed of black velvet was the most astonishing jewel I had ever seen. It was a tiara of considerable size and obvious expense, set with rubies. It was unique and old and clearly valuable.

  It was also the ugliest thing I had ever seen. I poked it with a reluctant finger. “What on earth is it made of?” I asked.

  “Foxes’ teeth,” Tiberius informed me, grinning. “There is only one other in the British Isles, and ours is far more expensive.”

  “I have never seen anything like it,” I told him truthfully. I darted a look to where Stoker was standing, a small smile playing about his mouth.

  I bent to examine the tiara more closely. A series of foxes’ teeth—many, many foxes’ teeth—formed the circular base in crisscrossing motifs, rising to a height of some three inches. The tip of each tooth was studded with a small ruby, drops of blood captured in jewel form.

  “Why on earth was such a thing commissioned?” I demanded.

  Tiberius gave me its history. “Our grandmother Vane was an heiress, more money than the Rothschilds, and our Templeton grandfather, in spite of his very old title, was poor as the proverbial church mouse. He needed her pots of cash. Unfortunately for him, every other regency buck was in pursuit of her, writing her sonnets and sending her pretty baubles.”

  Stoker picked up the tale. “But Grandmama did not care for titles or poetry or jewels. She lived to hunt. Grandfather sold everything he could get his hands on to buy her a gift to persuade her to marry him.”

  “And he bought her this?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Good God, no,” Tiberius corrected. “He bought her the best hunter in Ireland, an enormous brute of a horse called Tewkesbury. No one in that country could ride him, but he was fast as the wind and beautiful to boot. Grandmama sent back every other gift but that hunter and she eloped with Grandfather to Gretna on that very mount. But a viscountess must have a tiara, so Grandfather thought he would commemorate her favorite sport. He commissioned this monstrosity with her money and had it set with the teeth of every fox she had run to earth as well as the last of the Templeton rubies.”

  He lifted it from its velvet nest and set it on my head. “Have a look, my dear,” he urged. I went to the looking glass perched over his washstand. The tiara was formidable, gruesome, teeth grinning even as the rubies winked in the lamplight.

  “Frightful, isn’t it?” Tiberius asked with a smile.

  “It is the most dreadful thing I have ever seen,” I told him truthfully. “I both loathe and adore it.”

  “I thought you might,” Stoker told me. He glanced at Tiberius. “The armillae too, don’t you think?”

  Tiberius nodded. “Yes, there is something quite savage about them.” He rummaged in the boxes until he unearthed a pair of armillae. Wide cuffs of gold, they were heavily figured in a triple spiral pattern, the triskelion, an ancient and feminine symbol of power. He fitted them over my sleeves, just above the elbows. “You will want to wear these on bare arms, of course. But they will do nicely.”

  I tipped my head. “You seem terribly certain. Have you been to the Club de l’Étoile?”

  Tiberius shrugged. “Upon occasion. I have been approached a number of times by the lady who runs the establishment, offered membership as it were. I have yet to accept, but she has left the invitation open.”

  “I suppose it would be a feather in her cap to secure the presence of the Viscount Temple
ton-Vane,” Stoker said blandly.

  “My dear boy, you have no idea,” his brother said with an arch smile. “Among certain circles, I am famous.”

  “Not so much circles as pits,” Stoker said.

  To my astonishment, the viscount laughed.

  “Don’t be churlish, Stoker,” I chastened. “This is not the first time Tiberius’ interesting proclivities have been of use to us.”

  “And I bloody well hope it is the last,” Stoker put in with fervor.

  The viscount and I ignored him. “What should we expect?” I inquired.

  Tiberius gave it some thought. “It is a refined establishment. Most of these places are so draped in frills and furbelows, one can hardly tell where the upholstery leaves off. But Madame Aurore has exquisite taste, as one would expect from a lady with her history.”

  I propped my chin on my hands and widened my eyes, doing my best impression of a schoolgirl. “Do tell, Uncle Tiberius. And don’t leave anything out.”

  “Cheeky wench,” he said with a fond smile. “Very well. I suspect nothing will shock you, but if Stoker falls about blushing, do not say I failed to warn you.” He settled back into his chair, lacing his fingers over his slim waist. “No one knows where she came from. There are a thousand different myths, but she confirms none of them. She sprang, like Athena, fully formed on the stage of the Opéra, warbling out a passable Cherubino. It was not the quality of her voice which enthralled, you understand. It was the shapeliness of her calves in her costume as a footman.”

  “Naturally,” I said.

  “Her form attracted attention, as she no doubt intended it should. Her voice, as I say, was only passable. But she played a longer game, going into the keeping of a gentleman of wealth and renown. He polished her up, burnishing her to a brilliant shine. She left him within months for a prince of the blood. Then was an industrialist, an American, I believe. She had been, for eight months, the talk of Paris. And then the Prussians came.”